


All I Want (For Christmas) Is You

by endoftheline7



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Coming Out, F/M, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, The Golden Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endoftheline7/pseuds/endoftheline7
Summary: Perhaps he was being ungrateful for the life he had so very nearly lost, but he'd assumed that after Voldemort, things would get easier. Fall into place. He would marry Ginny and they'd have perfect children and live in a perfect house with a perfect white picket fence. It would've been perfect.But life wasn't like that.





	All I Want (For Christmas) Is You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shua_hui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shua_hui/gifts).



> my prompt was 'harry finds out draco likes him and draco doesn't know' and i got carried away. here's 11k of nonsense.

“You don't have to do this, Harry.”

Luna's melodic tones were a sweet calm that December evening, her voice like a flutter of spring amidst the cold winter. Homework had been heaped upon them those Christmas holidays, so much so that Harry was longing for them to end. He was beginning to regret staying at Hogwarts, the students dotted around the common room pouring over essays a constant and ominous reminder of all the work he had piling up. His other option had been going to Grimmauld Place for a little while- there had been no invite to the Weasley's. Not to any of them. He, Hermione, Ron and Ginny had received little correspondence from the Burrow since summer, Mrs Weasley buried too deep in her mourning to write any letters. There had been brief updates from Mr Weasley and his eldest children, but it was clear that none of them were in good shape. Healing would come in time, Harry supposed, but for now he was stuck in a mountain of homework, the idea of Grimmauld Place having not appealed to him earlier that month.

“It's not fair,” he insisted, motioning for her to follow along behind him, feeling a rush of fierce protectiveness toward her. “You helped win the war. And they're still stealing your bloody shoes.”

“You don't have to look, Harry, really-”

“I do,” he said. “I do have to, trust me. Why don't you check further down?”

She smiled at him, vague and bemused, and turned away with her usual light-footed step. Their search had led to a seemingly hidden alcove on the sixth floor, and Harry scanned a quickly cast Lumos across the floor, surprised at his sudden dip in knowledge of the Castle. Even after all these years, it still had mysteries to offer, a thought that sent warmth spreading in his stomach despite the chill that the evening held. It was Christmas at Hogwarts and Luna was just around the corner- the cold didn't seem to matter all that much.

“I don't know why you won't just speak to him.”

The voice echoed throughout the corridor, rising in volume as the sentence drew nearer to the end and the source of the voice drifted closer to the alcove. Harry didn't recognise the voice at first, was only certain it wasn't Luna's, but understood it to be distinctly female as it lilted through the words.

“Pans, don't be stupid. After everything...”

Now  _that_. That was the voice of Draco Malfoy. Harry had felt it follow him around far too much these past years, far too much to not know it immediately. The other voice appeared to belong to Pansy Parkinson. Harry had had little contact with the two of them- or any of the Slytherins, really- since just after the war. There had been a run of trials that many of them had attended, some as defendants, some as witnesses, some as simple spectators. Harry had caught eyes with a few of them across the courtroom, swallowing down hate and trying to see them for what they were: scared children.

He'd spoken at Malfoy's trial. Malfoy, after a long and arduous process, had been cleared of all charges and had sat, shocked and frozen, in his chair. Harry had dropped his wand into his lap and Malfoy had glanced up at him with wide, grateful eyes. Harry had walked away. He had barely looked him in the eyes since school had started, and that was months ago now. This was the first contact he'd had with him in forever and Malfoy didn't even know he was there.

“After everything... you deserve to be happy.”

Harry didn't see the point in disturbing them and their conversation. That, and he was a little curious as to what would make Draco Malfoy happy, and how that was related to his not speaking to someone. So, pathetically, he remained concealed as he listened in on a surprisingly intimate exchange between his once-enemies.

“So does  _he_. And the key to his happiness… that's more likely to be Ginny Weasley than me. I don't see the point in fostering more false hope.”

 _Ginny?_  What did Ginny have to do with-

“Oh,  _Draco_ ,” came the sighed, exasperated reply. Their voices had passed Harry now, and were travelling further down the corridor. “I wish it hadn't been  _Harry Potter_  you'd fallen in love with. That way you could… I don't know. Heal?”

Through ringing ears, Harry heard Malfoy's reply: “I don't think even Potter could fix  _me_.”

Parkinson's protest was drowned out by distance and the roaring blood in Harry's head. Their footfalls reverberated through his chest as the two paced away, their words becoming a far-away hum that inevitably lost itself in the usual chatter of the Castle. He felt as if he were recalling the conversation of only a few seconds ago through a shocked haze, head swimming. Harry Potter. Fallen in love with. And… Draco Malfoy? Those phrases grouped haphazardly together were something of an anomaly- Harry hadn't even  _thought_  of them together, let alone considered them. It didn't make sense, it didn't…

Malfoy. Malfoy who had bullied him for years, who had taunted and teased and revelled in his pain.

Malfoy. Malfoy who was scared and scarred and was only a child.

Malfoy who had never had a girlfriend in all his years at Hogwarts.

Conceivably, he could be gay. Harry could envision that, though he hadn't really given it any thought before today. Draco Malfoy's love life hadn't ever crossed his mind at  _all_ , he now realised. There hadn't been any need to think about it- he had always been a simple annoyance to Harry, a faint background buzz, white noise. But… Malfoy was a person. He was a human with his own hopes and dreams and desires, his own circle of friends and his own loves and losses. Harry knew some of them. Knew vaguely that he was close with Pansy and Blaise and that he had been through some awful stuff during the war, but apart from that, he was barely anything more than a bully to Harry.

 _In love_  with Harry, however? It seemed impossible. He had always been so cruel- that wasn't the way that anybody treated someone they wanted,  _surely_. But Harry had said it himself:

Malfoy was barely anything more than a bully to him. There was an entire person within him that Harry didn't know or understand.

And maybe, just maybe, that person was in love with him.

Heart pounding, Harry came back to himself at the sound of Luna's breezy return, flouncing into the alcove with a faint smile. In a hand, her shoes were clutched, fingers loosely curled around them. She seemed entirely unperturbed by the discovery, a far cry from Harry, who was completely and utterly floored where he stood. He hadn't shifted an inch since Parkinson had first spoken those shocking words, hadn't even  _breathed_. He felt as if he were drunk or dazed or dizzy, his thoughts running a mile a minute. All he'd wanted was to look for Luna's shoes, and instead he'd been subjected to an onslaught of information that couldn't possibly be true, information that would undeniably haunt him for nights upon nights.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Luna asked, observing his wide-eyed surprise but clueless as to what had caused it.

“Fine,” he croaked, his voice an astonished whisper.

Eighth year was supposed to mark the beginning of a new chapter in Harry's life, a life that was meant to be free of this endless drama. Yet like every year before, it was already shaping up to be one hell of a mystery.

 

***

 

Eighth year had been confirmed not two months after the war, McGonagall unsurprisingly taking the position of Headmistress. Hermione had elected to return immediately, easily persuading Harry, and after a little urging, Ron, too. Most of the year had returned to complete their NEWTs, bar for the few who had moved onto Auror training after the Battle, with Kingsely deciding that practical experience was more valuable than paper qualifications. The last of the Deatheaters had to be dealt with, after all, and those who had come face to face with them were likely the best candidates to find and arrest them. Harry had of course been offered a position alongside them, but had instead chosen to retreat back into the familiar warmth of Hogwarts and spend one last year studying beside his friends. After that? Who knew. Harry had a lot to figure out.

A part of that concerned his sexuality. He'd had a long talk with Ginny one summer evening, the wind tousling her copper hair and revealing the soft beauty of her face: expanses of fair skin and the tawny splatter of her freckles. She was truly beautiful, and she had turned away from him and confessed that she no longer loved him- not like that, anyway. Her eyes had been fixed on the darkening skyline, the emerging sunset, and Harry had caught a glimpse of her tears in the disappearing light.

“It's just...” she had mumbled, tripping over her words, frustration shaping her tone. Eventually, she'd sighed, and had finally looked at him, dead in the eye. There had been something fierce and brave and wild in the way she'd met his gaze and  _held_  it, chin lifted in defiance, simply daring him to react badly. “I might as well tell you: I'm a lesbian. I don't want you, Harry. I  _can't_. I don't think I ever can.”

“Oh,” he had replied, dumbfounded. “I'd never even thought...”

“No,” she had agreed, “you hadn't. Neither had I. Not for a long time.”

“Did you ever want me?” he'd wondered, and she glanced away.

“I thought I did,” had been her answer, quiet and confused. “I suppose not. I adore you Harry, you know that, but we were never right for each other. I think we were only ever  _convenient_  for each other. I wanted the great Boy Who Lived because it seemed like the logical option. I was the easiest choice for you, considering you never thought of Hermione that way. Though you never really spoke to a lot of girls- things never worked out with Cho or Parvati, did they? Perhaps you should do some thinking of your own. Just a suggestion.”

He had tried not to jolt at her last words, instead choosing to hear nothing but her dismissal.

“ _Convenient?_  Is that all our relationship was to you?”

“What relationship?” she'd asked. “We were barely together. For the first few months, sure, we had a great time. But after that? You were off trying to kill Voldemort. You were always distracted by something, whether that be Draco Malfoy or Horcruxes. We never spent time together the way couples did.”

“I didn't mean to neglect you.”

“I know,” she had said kindly. “And I know that the fate of the entire wizarding community was far more important than our brief teenage relationship, so I would never blame you. Not for any of it. You had serious things to worry about, Harry, but as much as you needed to deal with them, it gave me a lot of time to think. About us. About my future, if I was lucky enough to get one. I realised that we didn't have one together. Not in the way I'd once wanted.”

Her words had sounded withered and wise, like she had been repeating them in her head for a while. His heart had ached a little, but what was teenage heartbreak compared to the loss of those he loved? Harry had become accustomed to hurt, and he had found some truth in her words. They would always be close beyond measure, that was for sure, but that connection wasn't necessarily romantic. By September, he almost felt completely recovered, and instead was focused on a different part of their conversation. Rather than her cruel honesty about their relationship, he couldn't help but remember:

_Perhaps you should do some thinking of your own._

Merlin's beard, he hadn't been able to  _stop_. It had haunted him all summer, even  _with_  all the funerals and trials he had attended. Some nights he had felt immense guilt for worrying about something so trivial- people had  _died_. Charlie Weasley and his rugged charm hadn't exactly helped, nor had the lack of privacy in a tiny house he was sharing with primarily men. In the end, not long before school was set to begin, he had escaped with Ron and Hermione to Grimmauld Place, free from the heavy atmosphere of grief and lost confusion. He'd watched Ron drink Firewhiskey like it was going out of style, had seen in turn the bemused fondness in Hermione's expression, and had felt such warmth for them he had nearly wept.

“How did you know you loved Ron?” Harry had asked later that night, Ron passed out on the floor while he and Hermione basked in the heat of the fire they had lit.

“Loved or…  _loved_  loved?” she'd questioned, clearly having consumed some alcohol of her own.

“Loved loved.”

“I'd liked him for a little while,” she had confessed, “and you knew that. But... love? When he came back to us. When he found us again. I loved him so much my heart felt like it would burst with the pain of it. I knew I never wanted him to leave again.”

“And now?”

“Now?” she'd repeated. “Now it's like we have our whole lives ahead of us and it still isn't enough. I want to spend all of it and more with him.”

She had glanced from the fire to him, hope and helpless love etched in her expression. Her hair had been tangled over her face, which likely would have been flushed from the alcohol she'd consumed and the fire she had been sprawled before if not for the dark complexion of her skin. Hermione Granger. She was so brilliant and beautiful and she deserved eternity with Harry's other favourite person in the world, the boy who had befriended him on his very first day of Hogwarts and had been his very first step in not being so alone. Without him, without either of them, he wouldn't have a family. They made the morbid reminders in each corner of Grimmauld Place of the war and all he had lost a little easier to bear.

“I'm never getting back with Ginny,” he'd admitted, sad acceptance shaping his voice. “She's gay.”

“I'd always wondered,” Hermione had offered, not sounding at all surprised.

Harry had swallowed, nervous, before speaking again.

“Who else did you wonder about?”

His heart had been in his throat. Each breath had been hard to shift from his lungs.

“I don't know, lots of people.” She had glanced to him, seen his face, and realised. “You. On occasion.”

A beat.

“Well, you are the brightest witch of your age.”

His voice had been edging upon hysteria as the realisation had finally dawned on him, the great weight of wondering and worrying finally lifting from his shoulders and being replaced with a new heaviness: he was gay. The girls he had wanted had been far-off fantasies, never to work in practice. Cho and Ginny were both wonderful, but it was no surprise each of his time spent with them had been short-lived. He had chosen them because he'd thought he  _had_  to, because boys were supposed to like girls and that was the way of the world. He had been young and naive and had followed social convention because amidst the mess of Voldemort it had been simpler to want women in the way that he had: soft and ignorable and, as Ginny had so concisely put it,  _convenient_.

Hermione had taken him in her arms and he had cried in drunken confusion and fear. What would his parents have said? What of Sirius and Remus? How would Ron and the Weasleys take it?

Was it okay?

“I love you, Harry,” Hermione had assured, hand soothing him where it rested upon his back. “We all do. We all want you to be happy- you deserve it more than anyone. You gave up everything for us, for  _all_  of us. Your being interested in men won't change that. Not ever.”

“Ron won't mind? You're sure?”

“Of  _course_  he won't,” she'd hissed, ferocious, fond emotion shaping her expression. Her gaze had been imploring, pleading,  _longing_  for him to understand. “I don't think he'd care in the slightest. You're more or less a brother to him.”

And so Harry had felt a little better. But the well of worry within him was still a snake pit, one that remained even now, months after he had realised. He had not yet confessed it to Ron- or anyone, really. Hermione was the only one he'd told, though Ginny had seemed to suspect when she'd come out to him herself. It wasn't that he found it shameful. It was that _it scared him_. Perhaps he was being ungrateful for the life he had so very nearly lost, but he'd assumed that after Voldemort, things would get easier. Fall into place. He would marry Ginny and they'd have perfect children and live in a perfect house with a perfect white picket fence. It would've been perfect.

But life wasn't like that.

Life was hard and messy and unpredictable. Harry had never been destined for that sort of conventional life- his parents had tried it, had gotten so close, yet it had slipped through their fingers with a flash of angry green. If they hadn't had Harry, they would've been alive. It was a thought that kept him up at night.

That, and the great unknown prospect of his newfound homosexuality.

Since September he'd tried to look at the boys in his dorm like that, with searching eyes and an open mind, but had struggled. Perhaps it was because he'd grown up with them, but even those as beautiful as Dean he had trouble envisioning sexually. Hufflepuffs were even harder- amongst them were arguably the most sexless people Harry had ever known. From Justin Finch-Fletchley to Zacharias Smith, it was enough to reveal to Harry what  _wasn't_  his type, even if he couldn't yet deduce what  _did_  interest him. Ravenclaws, however, were conceivable. It hadn't taken much for him to notice the broad shoulders of Michael Corner and the full lips of Terry Boot.

What he hadn't even  _considered_ , were the Slytherins.

But then one day in Transfiguration Blaise Zabini had dropped his wand by Harry's desk and he'd bent over to retrieve it and-

and.

The bolt of attraction that had rushed through Harry had been surprising, but moderately understandable. Zabini was a good looking bloke. The other Slytherins weren't much too look at- Goyle was too big and blundering for Harry's tastes, Nott was too weedy, and Malfoy, of course, wasn't an option. But Zabini… it had answered a definitive question for him. This was what he liked: men who were slender and aloof and perhaps even a little brooding. Men like Zabini, men with Slytherin qualities, men who were cunning and sharp and sinfully attractive.

Malfoy, of course, wasn't an option.

Malfoy was quite similar to Zabini. Malfoy was  _exactly_  Harry's type.

Malfoy, it seemed,  _was_  an option.

_I wish it hadn't been Harry Potter you'd fallen in love with._

 

***

 

Harry's usual solution to his problems was to go to Hermione, but this year she was usually wrapped up with Ron in front of the common room fire, and while Harry was welcome, he suspected his mounting emotional baggage wasn't. They didn't often talk about the war, though they all remembered it well. Instead the conversations would consist of homework and friends and all those mundanities they'd never really had the  _chance_  to talk about, before. Sometimes things would fall quiet, the soft companionship they had falling into place, and Harry would stare into the flames and long to see Sirius' head appear, long to see the fire of Fred's hair and the hear the faint buzz of Colin Creevey's voice alongside the crackling heat.

But all he had to do was turn. Hermione's head on Ron's shoulder spread new warmth through him, affection tugging a smile onto his face. There was no envy, nor had there ever been. His heart swelled with nothing but fond contentment as he watched his friends embark upon the beginning of the rest of their lives.

Perhaps Harry had never been supposed to end up with the perfect female love match, and perhaps he'd never been supposed to end up with Ginny, but Merlin help him, he  _wanted_  that.

“Did you find Luna's shoes?” Hermione asked as he returned from his brief adventure with Luna, dazed shock still befalling his face.

“We found them just fine,” he answered, voice sounding detached from him through the blood rushing in his head.

He considered, momentarily, sharing the conversation he had just overheard, but instantly decided against it. Their only discussions about Malfoy over the years had been about how much of a twat he was, whether or not he was a Deatheater, and why on  _earth_  Harry had volunteered to speak at his trial. Now, bringing the prospect of a gay Malfoy in love with Harry… it was unthinkable. Not only that, but it was likely to lead to a prompt outing to Ron, which Harry wasn't at all ready for. It wasn't as if he was still worried he might take it badly, because now he was past the panic-stricken disbelief about the truth of his sexuality, he understood Ron would accept him no matter what, but he just didn't want to share it yet. It was still a confusing mess to even him, and the idea of explaining it wasn't a pleasant thought.

He'd avoided the truth of what he'd overheard on the journey here, but he knew it would soon become unbearably distracting. Malfoy. Wanting him.

 _Malfoy_.

“You were gone  _ages_ ,” Ron complained. “Don't tell me you bumped into Slughorn again- you know what happened last time. A trip to the Owlery and you weren't back for over an  _hour_. Now there's a bloke who likes to talk. And the whole lot of it's rubbish.”

“Ron,” Hermione chastised, elbowing him. “He's a  _teacher_. He's qualified- it's not  _all_  rubbish. He certainly has something of merit to say in Potions.”

“Ron wouldn't know,” Harry interjected, grinning and sinking down on the sofa beside them. “When does he listen in class?”

“Oi!”

Ron could protest all he wanted, it didn't distract from the fact he was half-asleep in Potions the very next day. Harry wasn't all that much better himself, since he'd been up most of the night picking apart Parkinson and Malfoy's conversation, a thousand ridiculous explanations darting through his mind. Malfoy was confused, that was plausible. It was a joke, another strong possibility. They were acting… a less than strong possibility.

It had taken breakfast, however, to finally reveal the truth to him. He'd looked up from his porridge to glance at Malfoy, who had already been looking, starting at the new presence of Harry's eyes on him, face flooding with apprehension. Parkinson snorted into her juice beside him, and Harry had immediately felt like a complete and utter fool. Of course. It had all been a joke. They had somehow known he would be there, and had orchestrated it so he would overhear, and it was all a big, brilliant joke.

Malfoy didn't want him. Malfoy wanted nothing but to mock him, and Harry didn't know why he was so surprised.

He didn't know why he was so disappointed.

Malfoy… even for a newly gay Harry, the idea was a bit much. But not as ridiculous it had seemed before, apparently. Now, Harry saw it. The angular lines of his cheekbones, the long arch of his neck, the pink bud of his mouth. He wasn't  _unattractive_ , had only ever been repulsive when he was sneering and snarling at Harry and his friends. Now, after the war, where he was quiet and withdrawn, he suddenly wasn't so unappealing. In fact, back in sixth year… Harry had been unnaturally drawn to him, with all of his new brooding silences. His reasoning for being so had been entirely different, but the notion wasn't insane. Perhaps…

Perhaps he was attractive after all.

Malfoy was constructed well, the lines of his form cut clean and prim, similar to his father only in spirit, in echoes. It was visible in the way he held himself that he had been raised a Malfoy, but there was a soft glimmer of youth that removed him from the harsh constraints of his family. A hope, a potential. A capacity for good. It was why Harry had spoken for him at his trial- he was a child, and while he had treated Harry horribly, the fate of Azkaban was an extreme one. Harry didn't think him guilty of his actions during the war and childish bullying certainly didn't deserve a criminal conviction.

Harry had thought Malfoy could change, however. Had assumed he'd reflect after the war and think of all the hardship he had caused. Harry's vague belief had been sustained at his return to Hogwarts: Malfoy had steered well clear of him and hadn't spoken a word in his presence. Until yesterday, that was, and the realisation of what had truly occurred yesterday shattered his hopes for Malfoy to grow as a person and leave that bully he'd once been behind. It wasn't quite his harsh bigotry of before, shaped into weapons to wound simply for the sake of wounding, but it felt unnecessary. It felt nasty.

In love. It was an unexpected trick to play, a far cry from the outright cruelty he'd shown to Harry for all those years, but Harry supposed it was now the time for Malfoy to attempt a different kind of torture.

Potions was as dull as ever, unhindered by Harry's racing thoughts and thick confusion. He was now aware of the occasional glances thrown his way by Malfoy from across the room, fleeting but frequent. Likely checking how his joke had settled, Harry supposed, but it was jarring. Never had he been so attuned to Malfoy's presence or his actions. It hadn't been this way since sixth year, though the situation back then had been a clear contrast to today, in this raw, post-war uncertainty. It was different to the fraught terror of back then. Harry risked meeting Malfoy's gaze only once, turning as he felt a pair of searching eyes come to rest on him. He only caught a glimpse of stormy grey before Malfoy was staring down at his parchment as if he hadn't moved at all, his shift from Harry's glance too fast to be subject to scrutiny.

It was frustrating, but Harry couldn't deny the exhilaration it gave him.

“I- sorry,” Malfoy mumbled, stumbling headfirst into him as he exited the Potions cupboard. His cheeks flushed pink as he caught Harry's eyes, throat bobbing. Concern dawned in his face as Harry simply looked at him, considering. It had been a cruel joke to play, and shockingly, Malfoy wasn't rubbing it in his face. His eyes darted over Harry's shoulder, and Harry didn't have to check to know it was Parkinson he was looking it.

Of course. It fell into place as nerves exerted themselves on Malfoy's face, softening his harsh features.

It was Harry's move next- this joke was a longitudinal one. A moment ticked by as he realised it, the crushing weight of it all dawning on him. They planned to tease him, and had likely assumed he had understood this by now. His rage would mount at it all and they would laugh in his face at his gullible, pathetic nature. He could already feel the cold fury blooming in him at the cruelty and humiliation of it all. But that didn't have to be the case. Not really.

So glancing up at Malfoy through his eyelashes, Harry smirked, blinked.

“Oh, I don't mind.”

It was coquettish, coy, spoken with a tremulous and overspilling meaning. Malfoy's blush darkened, spreading across the pale of his face. His mouth parted in innocent surprise, pink lips parting in a circle. There was an honest shock balanced there in his expression, a vulnerability. Harry hadn't seen it since the flames of the Room of Requirement, that helpless plea that he'd thrown Harry's way, dissolving any chance that Harry would allow him to simply burn there. As if there had been any chance to begin with.

Malfoy didn't have a word to say in reply.

Harry's flirting had clearly thrown him off his guard. Let the move be his instead.

 

***

 

“Were you talking to Malfoy today?” Ron said, quill tickling the curve of his nose as he bent over a Transfiguration essay, brow creased in concentration. It was an odd question and one that came entirely out of the blue. Harry nearly startled at Ron's even tones drifting into the silence, smudging ink as he did so, a shadow on the page.

“He bumped into me on the way out of the cupboard,” Harry explained loftily, dismissive, panic igniting in him for some odd reason. Talking about Malfoy was the last thing he wanted to do. “He just apologised, is all.”

“ _Malfoy?_ ” Ron repeated, deigning this conversation topic to be enough to look up from his homework. Though that didn't usually take much, admittedly. “ _Malfoy_  apologised? Wow. Guess the git really has changed.”

“You've changed your tune,” Harry observed. “It was only a few months ago you didn't want me to speak at his trial.”

“It's different now, I...” Ron sighed, considering his words carefully, an odd occurrence when it came to Ron Weasley. He wasn't really one for self-reflection. “They aren't all bad. Goyle lent me a quill in Charms last month.”

“Ah, of course. The basis for deciding good and evil.”

“Harry,” Ron sighed, fixing him with a glare that lacked all venom. “You know what I mean.”

“I know,” Harry confessed, heart swelling with affection. Oh, Hogwarts. The animosity between Slytherin and Gryffindor still existed to a certain extent, but it was mostly good-natured nowadays, especially with the eighth years- hostility seemed redundant after all they had been through. It made Harry ache, a little. If only it had always been like this; if only they had grown up without war on the horizon. “That's why I spoke for him. They were caught up in the war just the same as we were. The tide just took them the wrong way.”

“Sorry I was so angry back then. It's just, Fred-”

“Don't,” Harry cut in. “Don't say sorry. It's Fred. I understand.”

Quiet, shared loss quivered between them, momentary. Ron smiled, and it was distant, lost.

“I miss him,” he admitted quietly, and it was the first they had spoken of him since that fateful day. Grief had gone unspoken these last months and Harry had expected it to bubble over in the midst of a violent argument. Instead, it was this: spilling gently into the soft companionship between them, more kind than it was cruel.

“I miss him too,” Harry said hesitantly, watching Ron's face to gauge his reaction. He wondered if it would anger Ron that Harry had loved Fred, that he still felt his loss. Ron had been his brother by blood, after all, and as much as the Weasley's welcomed Harry, he hadn't known Fred like they had, so how could he hope to understand their sorrow?

Blood or no blood, Harry had loved Fred nonetheless. And Ron...

He didn't look angry. He just looked sad.

“I think you did good, mate,” he said, “speaking at Malfoy's trial like that. He might be a bastard but Azkaban… seems a bit harsh. Even for him.”

“What  _does_  he deserve, in your opinion?” Harry asked out of amused curiosity, feeling the urge to tease. “A Bat-Bogey Hex? A public dumping from Parkinson? A Christmas at St Mungo's?”

“Oh, the first, definitely,” Ron agreed. “St Mungo's isn't a fair punishment and I don't think Parkinson can break up with someone she was never dating, so.”

Harry frowned and Ron looked on at him bemusedly. “Wait, so they never...”

“Harry… Malfoy's  _gay_ ,” Ron clarified, gazing at him like he was an utter idiot. There was a humoured exasperation in his expression as he watched the understanding dawn on Harry's face 

“You didn't know?"

“I…” Harry, at a loss for words, floundered. It had certainly crossed his mind as he'd played his unwilling part in their joke, that Malfoy may actually be gay. But this confirmation was surprising. Harry hadn't been aware it was such common knowledge, especially with someone like  _Ron_ , who  _hated_  Malfoy. How had Harry not become privy to this information? He supposed he'd been caught up in a lot, back then. He hadn't had a lot of time to listen to petty dramas and rumours, and if he'd heard them at all, they hadn't made any lasting impression. He had been far too focused on not dying.

“He asked Dean to the Yule Ball in Fourth Year. Didn't seem to care much when Dean rejected him, but why ask in the first place? And that Harper from Slytherin, he's said some things about Malfoy over the years,” he remarked. “Ginny told me he's pretty open about it with his house. I assumed you knew- there's always been rumours.”

“No. I had no idea,” Harry said faintly. Ron huffed a laugh, quill scratching rhythmically on his parchment. Heart thundering in his chest, Harry gathered up the courage to speak once more. “What do you… think about- about all that?”

It was anything but subtle, and while occasionally slow to catch on and far from academically gifted, Ron wasn't stupid. He glanced up at Harry, and there was an astute consideration glinting in his eyes as he formulated his response. His hair was sticking up, tangled and springy where he had been playing with it absent-mindedly as he worked. It looked like fire in the warm glow of the common room, and Harry took a second to  _love_. Ron was brave and brilliant and Harry's best friend. Harry could be about to lose him forever, could hear hate spew from his mouth and know that Ron would never look at him the same, would despise-

“Charlie's gay, you know,” Ron said, off-handedly. He paused, clearing his throat and peering back down at his essay. When he spoke it was with a feigned nonchalance that they could both see through quite clearly. “It never bothered me. It's not… it doesn't have to be a big deal. He's still my brother. He'll always be my brother.”

He looked sharply to Harry once more, and Harry wanted to  _weep_. Ron knew exactly what he was saying and it was enough; it was  _more_  than enough. Harry's sexuality wouldn't change a thing and the heady rush of joy and relief coursing through him was nearly overpowered by the full and fond  _contentment_  of it all.

 _Brothers_.

 

***

 

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Harry joked, turning a corner in Honeydukes to meet Malfoy head on. Malfoy started at the sight of him, eyes widening. He hadn't spoken a full sentence to Harry since that fateful night in the Room of Requirement, pale face ashen and sooty in the glare of the fire. He had changed since the war. He'd let his hair grow untamed, sweeping across his forehead, and his posture didn't hold that same aloof stiffness that it had before. Harry didn't know what had occupied him over the summer- guilt, most likely- but he was a new man, nowadays.

“It's hardly my fault,” he retorted, voice haughty as he spoke. Okay, perhaps not all that new.

His teasing came seamlessly, slipping into his voice like the shift of autumn to winter. If Malfoy had been trying to convince Harry he was in love with him, then this surely wasn't the way to do it. But instead, he was acting as if Harry hadn't overheard that conversation at all. It was like an unspoken conflict, arching between them in a dangerous spiral. Harry knew. Malfoy knew he knew. He was still such an imperceptible, infuriating mystery. It was like sixth year all over again, only this time Harry was certain: Malfoy wasn't evil, Malfoy never had been evil. He'd been frightened and misled and far too young to be stuck on that side of the war.

“Sorry,” Harry conceded, recalling their interaction from the day before and his resolve to avoid humiliation. “I should've been looking where I was going.”

Malfoy's sneer seemed to fall from his expression in an instant, replaced by fresh shock. In all the years they had known each other, not once had an apology passed between them. It was surprising that amidst their painful and complicated history, it was this, a merely accidental altercation, that warranted such civility to bloom. Old enemies turned acquaintances- who would've thought it?

“Right,” Malfoy uttered, slow and exploratory. It was as if he was choosing his words as he spoke them, letting them fall from his tongue with the utmost care. “I suppose I could've been more aware. My apologies, Potter.”

It was undoubtedly the longest exchange they'd shared without barbs or insults. Such niceties coming from Malfoy's direction was an instance Harry had never once been able to envision. The presence of such kindness between them sent warmth curling through his gut, a surprising but brilliant joy. It all felt so new and odd and exciting. Malfoy's features, while so sharp they looked as if they could cut glass, were surprisingly soft in the daytime winter glow. His skin seemed as if it went on for miles underneath all his layers; the flush on his cheeks from the cold was utterly tantalising, its rouge a vast contrast from the snowy complexion of his usual paleness.

Harry's answering grin was a wolfish leap from what he usually threw to Ron and Hermione, and it clearly startled Malfoy, too, who did nothing but blanch and turn away suddenly, ducking past Harry and stalking away with a dramatic haste. The door to the shop swung open and closed with a sudden bang, the bell ringing shrilly. Ron and Hermione were visible further down the aisle, staring at the spot Malfoy had vacated with confusion creasing their brows.

“I thought you were trying to be civil after the war,” Hermione chastised after they had made their way over. Her gaze flicked to the door Malfoy had disappeared through.

“I  _was_ ,” Harry insisted. “I  _apologised_. He just… stormed off.”

“Guess the prick hasn't changed all that much, then,” Ron remarked, throwing and arm around Harry's shoulder and leading him toward the door. Hermione scoffed behind them, readying to launch into some righteous lecture on Ron's lack of tact, and it was all forgotten. The day passed by quickly after that, and Harry barely gave Malfoy a thought, too caught up in the Christmas cheer and bustle of Hogsmeade.

What did it matter that Malfoy deemed this the right time to revert to his taunting of before? Harry was content in these days following the war and it seemed silly to let a little thing like  _Malfoy_  ruin that, as ridiculous and  _tempting_  as this particular line of bullying was to rise to. It was perhaps the most subtle approach he'd ever tried, and Harry felt the urge to ignore it altogether – that way, he could forget about it. Perhaps that was for the best, and it wouldn't exactly take much explanation.

He hadn't yet let on to Ron and Hermione what he had overheard, and he didn't plan to. There didn't seem to be a point. Not when everything else was going so well.

“I'll admit, I do feel bad for the Slytherins,” Hermione admitted over her third butterbeer, surrounded by the hearty atmosphere of the Hog's Head. Her hair sprung wild over her shoulders, like usual. “When do we ever include them?”

“Hermione,” Ron began, amusement brimming in his voice, “when do we ever do anything with the other houses?”

“We had that party,” she protested. “Back in September.”

“That was  _September_ ,” Ron argued. “It was, what, a week into term? Things were different then. They were… fresh. Now, spending all this time with them- people get it. They know it was hard for them too.”

Hermione's face darkened, shadow casting in her eyes. “I know… but sometimes I feel as if we should… I don't know, extend an olive branch? The wizarding community is an incredibly insular one. We'll likely be working with some of these people in a few years. I want them to know that I forgive them. That I forgave them a long time ago. That I know it wasn't their fault.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Another party, maybe. A Christmas one. For everyone.”

“Like the Yule Ball?” Harry interjected, wrinkling his nose at the memory.

“ _No_ ,” Hermione dismissed. “Like the one in September. With drinking and… dancing.”

“Sounds like the Yule Ball to me,” Ron said, pressing his lips together to conceal his laughter, and Hermione glared at him in response.

“Oh, shut up you two,” she muttered. “I'm serious. I think we should organise something for the eighth years on Christmas eve, or something. That way, we can… let bygones be bygones. Drink together. Be civilised.”

“Drinking together means it'll be all number of things but civilised, Hermione. And 'we'? I don't remember agreeing to help you organise this disaster.”

“Fine, I'll do it by myself. And I'll settle for it being  _fun_ , civility be damned.”

She stood with a flounce, not really out of anger toward Ron but a desire to make a dramatic exit, shoving her chair back with an awful squeak as it dragged along the floor. She delved into her pocket and threw some sickles down on the table, before turning away haughtily and stalking off. Merlin's beard, once that girl got an idea into her head… Harry hoped this wasn't SPEW all over again. At the very least, this time he had the assurance that Hermione's party idea would only last another week or so until Christmas eve crept up on them. Though… there was no assurance she wouldn't continue in her efforts to unite the four houses. Harry didn't look forward to her potential crusade.

Knowing Hermione, there'd be an invite out within the day. He wondered if the Slytherins would show up- if  _Malfoy_  would show up.

Their eyes caught over dinner that night. Malfoy was the first to look away.

 

***

 

“Granger's really got her work cut out for her.”

Harry startled, hand jolting and blotching ink across his parchment. Harry glanced up to see a flash of platinum and pale skin attached to a tall, spindly figure. Malfoy was staring through the window at Hermione in the distance, bustling about between groups of seventh and eighth years, hair wild in the bitter wind. Harry followed his gaze, fixing his own on her. Knowledge of her party had spread fairly quickly, and while Harry remained uninterested, he was vaguely fascinated by Hermione's determination to rebuild after the war. Harry had simply chosen to retreat, to fall quiet, be at one with his own thoughts. Hermione had decided that being loud was the way to move forward.

“Well, that's Hermione for you,” Harry replied, affection marring his tone. His eyes traced her hurried movements. “She's always been something of a fighter.”

“You'll be going, I assume?” Malfoy asked, and Harry saw it for what it was: feigned nonchalance. Likely wanting to know if there was any chance he could extend his cruel trick from earlier in the month. Harry had all but forgotten it by now, but everytime he looked Malfoy's way the absurdity of it all came rushing back.

“I can't exactly not show up to support her,” Harry answered, still steadfastly refusing to look up at Malfoy, smiling fondly as Ron approached Hermione down in the courtyard. His hair was like fire against the snowy backdrop, curling like flames around his face as it wormed its way from his under his hat. They were too far away for Harry to see their expressions, but the intimacy as they met was undeniable, hands enfolding one another and foreheads bumping. “You won't be going, I assume.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Malfoy said, an air of his usual pompousness surrounding his words. He sank down on the windowseat beside Harry, who moved his legs to accommodate for him, bringing his knees up to his chest. He finally looked, staring as Malfoy gingerly seated himself, swallowing awkwardly. Harry was struck by the manner of it all- they had never been such polite acquaintances. Perhaps Malfoy wanted to copy his Potions essay? “Pansy seems interested. Wants to have a drink or two. I may accompany her- I'll see how I feel.”

“You're the reason Hermione's doing this,” Harry admitted, and watched as confusion curled on Malfoy's face. “She'd appreciate you being there.”

“ _I'm_  the reason she's doing this?” Malfoy asked, and Harry huffed a laugh. Malfoy's eyes shot to his mouth, his own parting.

“Not  _just_  you, you vain bastard,” he muttered, “she's doing it for Slytherin. She wants… inter-house unity, or whatever you'd call it. She wants peace, after everything.”

“I can't say I blame her.”

An odd moment of quiet peace passed between them, and Harry took a second to think again at their strange new camaraderie. It was such a contrast to the relationship they'd once had, a relationship that had lasted for  _years_. But they had both suffered so much, recently. Harry supposed that neither of them had the energy any more. There didn't seem to be much of a point, after everything.

“Do you ever think about the way things used to be?” Harry asked, the words falling without prompting. His fist clenched around his quill. “The way we used to be?”

Malfoy paused, and his eyes lifted to Harry's. “All the time.”

“Me too.”

Ron and Hermione were kissing amidst the snowfall now, and Harry looked to them, tracking the way they held each other, warm and honest and familiar. There was such softness in their movements. He heard Malfoy's breath catch beside him, heard his hands rub awkwardly against his thighs through the fabric of his robes.

“I'm sorry,” he blurted, and Harry's gaze flew to him in surprise. “For- everything. Sorry. I was so vile to you. To all of you. I was just so…”

“I forgive you,” Harry said, and the words quivered between them. They were relieving to say, they were liberating. They had both endured such hardship: it felt good to let go of the past.

“Thank you,” Malfoy whispered, and Harry was humbled by it all.

“I was no angel either. I'm sorry too.”

“It's okay,” Malfoy replied, voice a little hoarse. Harry remembered nothing but blood and regret, but he smiled, timid and hesitant. Malfoy, ever the surprise, smiled back. Harry was sure it was similar to his in that it was far from real and more out of social nicety, but Merlin's beard if Malfoy's smile wasn't beautiful. It was striking and sweet and totally unexpected, like rain in the summertime or happiness amongst a war.

And yet.

Sometimes, when the sun shone, it rained. Sometimes, during wars, people found love.

Just look at Ron and Hermione.

So Malfoy smiled, and Harry smiled back, and for a brief minute it was as if nothing bad had ever occurred between them, as if Malfoy hadn't half-tortured him for years and Harry hadn't scarred his chest. It was like they could've been friends, in some distant parallel universe. Like they could've had a different relationship entirely. Malfoy was beautiful when he smiled.

“Do you wish things had been different?” Harry asked, wondering absently if they were on the same page.

“All the time,” Malfoy repeated, low and quiet. How often was 'all the time'? “Do you?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “I do. Maybe it would've saved a lot of tragedy.”

The deeper meaning went unsaid.  _Malfoy's_  tragedy- Malfoy could've been saved. There likely wasn't a soul in Hogwarts who wasn't aware of Harry's frankly staggeringly large hero complex, and Malfoy, who knew Harry's flaws inside and out, understood exactly what Harry meant. It was impossible to change the past, but Harry longed to nonetheless. He longed to have the ability to bring back those lost to death, and for those alive, to reduce their pain.

“Some people are beyond saving.”

“I don't believe that,” Harry said. “I don't believe that for a second.”

“I know,” Malfoy said, and there was some wild admiration in his face as he gazed at Harry. “That's why you saved me, in the Room. That's why you tried to save him.  _Him_. After everything...” He trailed off, seemingly speechless. There was a deep well of  _something_  in his eyes. “Why are you like that, Potter?”

“Like what?”

“Why are you so unfailingly and infuriatingly good? Why do you insist on caring so bloody much?” There was frustration in his tone, thick in his words. “Why did you save me? Why did you speak at my trial?”

“Because you aren't what he wanted you to be,” Harry murmured, heart aching for Malfoy, a boy who had had such little choice. Not that any of them had. “You aren't that great abstract evil that he was, that all of them were. You're more.”

“I bullied you,” Malfoy uttered, shocked.

“But you were  _real_ ,” Harry insisted. “You were cruel but you were childish. You weren't a killer.”

If Harry weren't so certain Malfoy had been joking the other week, he would've said that he looked a little bit in love. His eyes were wide and wet as they bored into Harry's and there was some overwhelming pained emotion etched in his expression. Harry sort of wanted to kiss him, kiss him like Ron and Hermione had kissed during the Battle, kiss him like it was their last day on earth and it was all that was left. Kiss him fierce and senseless.

Instead, he looked away. Diverted his attention to the spot where Ron and Hermione stood in the courtyard and held one another, a spark of warmth in the chill. Eventually the air shifted, and Malfoy left, wordless. Harry was as cold as ever.

 

***

 

Secret Santa was a new feature of the NEWT level Potions class, certainly, but it had been fun. They'd decided to send off their presents the day before Christmas Eve. Harry had pulled out Blaise Zabini's name and now watched across the Great Hall as his face morphed from indifference to delight at the new quill Harry had gifted him after noticing one of his snap under the stress of desperately scribbling an essay in the library. His own present was expertly wrapped and beautifully finished with a large bow, trussed up in ribbons. The tag read nothing but  _merry xmas potter_  and Harry just  _knew_.

When he discovered that the gift was a jumbo pack of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans, he knew. When he glanced up to see Malfoy smirking at him from across the Hall, he knew. It wasn't hard to decipher who it had been from, and it spread an unexpected warmth through Harry as he peered harder. It wasn't just any jumbo pack. It wasn't just any generic and cheap gift one would buy for another classmate, let alone an ex-enemy.

It was specifically and carefully chosen. There wasn't one flavour in the whole pack that Harry didn't like, and he'd usually assume that it was simply luck, but… Bertie Botts without a bogey bean? It was an occurrence he'd never come across in all his years of buying them. The packaging had looked untouched, but that didn't mean they hadn't been tampered with.

Perhaps they'd been poisoned?

“Who are they from?” Hermione prodded, flopping onto the common room sofa next to him and Ron. They had given up on chess to simply sit, basking in the warmth of the fire.

“Malfoy. I think.”

“Mature of him,” she remarked, smirking down at the gift. “A few years ago he would've sent you poison.”

“Maybe he  _has_ ,” Harry suggested, but their conversation from the other day weighed on his mind. It had been civil- friendly, even. It had been meaningful. Would Malfoy really strive to ruin all of that progress they'd made?

“Don't be stupid, it isn't sixth year,” Hermione dismissed, prying the pack from his hands. “I was never a fan of these. Too much risk.”

“You're a  _Gryffindor_ , Hermione,” Ron interjected. “Better not say that too loud.”

She grinned at him, glancing back down to the pack before Harry finally spoke up. “There, um. There isn't much risk with these,” he admitted, and Hermione frowned up at him.

“Oh, yeah,” Ron piped up with a laugh, “they're all the nice ones.”

“But… how on earth…?” Hermione, shockingly, had no words.

“Maybe he picked out all the disgusting ones,” Ron said, and several things went through Harry's head. Maybe Malfoy  _had_  picked out the disgusting ones, and this was all a part of the ruse from the other week. Maybe he hadn't, and it was all just luck. Either way, Harry was utterly intrigued and completely confused.

“Why would  _Malfoy_  do that?” Harry questioned.

“To mess with you?”

“To be friendly?” Hermione interjected, rolling her eyes at Ron.

“It's an awful lot of trouble to go to,” Harry muttered, thinking back to what he'd overheard. Maybe…

“Maybe he fancies you.”

“ _Ron!_ ” Hermione exclaimed. “Just because he's gay it doesn't mean he has a crush on every boy he interacts with!”

“Yeah but it's  _Harry_!” Ron protested. “He's a catch!”

Harry barked a laugh, shoving at Ron. “Shut up. Malfoy's never once acted as if he wanted me. Don't be stupid.”

Stupid. The spark of hope he felt was  _stupid_ , the low swing of interest he felt in his stomach was  _stupid_ , it was all so, so  _stupid_. But he wanted Malfoy. He did. There was something about his eyes and his smile and his skin and whatever it was sent Harry reeling. Now they were so much more than what they had been all those years, and each interaction felt heavy with possibility. Malfoy had smiled at him in the library. He had nodded at him in passing in the corridor. They had even  _spoken_ , recently.

“I've seen your girlfriend looking pretty cosy with Thomas lately. Just thought I'd let you know,” he had said, approaching Harry as he walked through the snow of the Hogwarts grounds, footsteps crunching as he did. Harry had only laughed in response, flushed and happy in the cold.

“I don't even know where to  _begin_ ,” he'd replied. “Ginny hasn't been my girlfriend for over a year now, and they're both gay. Pretty sure they're just friends. You've got a lot of catching up to do, Malfoy. From what I hear, you asked Dean to the Yule Ball way back when. Jealous?”

"Of course not. I only asked him out of convenience. He looked like..." Malfoy cleared his throat. “I thought you were with her in sixth year-”

“That was a long time ago,” Harry had said, remembering all that ridiculous teen angst. It was almost funny now, that they had been so focused on such trivial matters when Voldemort was right around the corner. “A lot has changed since then. We've all changed.”

“I know  _I_  have,” Malfoy had whispered, and he'd looked lovely in the snow. “So you aren't… You two don't…?”

“No. Not for a long time.”

“Oh,” had come the response, and Malfoy's voice had been full of something indistinguishable. Something curious and breathless. The chill stinging at his cheeks materialised as a blush, a daunting pink on his pale skin, giving him colour and life and abstract beauty. Harry had wanted to reach out and  _touch_. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Harry had said, smiling. “I want her to be happy. And I'm happy. Everything worked out for the best.”

“You aren't broken-hearted?” Malfoy had pried, seeming entirely too interested for somebody that once hated Harry. Harry had laughed all the same, laughed at the idea that he and Ginny could break each other's hearts. They were far too important to one another, and rather than a separation, their parting had been a reunion. Friends: it was what they were meant for.

“Not at all. She's brilliant, but… well, it isn't like that.”

“Right,” Malfoy had murmured, and there had been a tiny smile curling his mouth. “As long as you're okay.”

Harry had grinned at the pure, extraordinary shock of it all. Draco Malfoy. Wanting him to be okay. This time last year he would've willingly seen him dead, would've wanted to taunt and tease and  _hurt_ , if it really came down to it. War had changed them all, had stripped them down to something softer than they had once been. Hermione was sharper, somehow, more shrewd and far more used to  _applying_  her mind rather than simply having it. Ron was less open. He had lost his brother and a piece of his heart with him, and now he smiled less and spoke different and Harry loved him all the same. Ginny now wore her courage like a badge of honour than a secret skill. Luna had dark smudges beneath her eyes and her dreams, Harry could tell, were not as vibrant as they had once been. Neville often got a far off look in his eye. Dean and Seamus were rarely seen with anyone but the other.

Malfoy was friendly. Everything was scary and new and Harry wanted to live like this forever.

 

***

 

Despite the bitter cold, Harry never could deny himself the joy of flying. Even during winter months, with the wind stinging his cheeks red and tears of discomfort spiking in his eyes, he'd let the ice encompass him willingly and knowingly, with a great big grin on his face. There was something about that freedom, soaring through the sky, that numbed him to the weather. Come rain or shine, Harry Potter loved his Firebolt and rarely hesitated at the chance to use it. It had always been like that, so it seemed.

This year was no different.

He hadn't had much of a chance during the war to feel that wild sort of liberation. Oh, he'd felt wild alright, but it had been far from simple, far from happy. That loss of control was completely different. That loss of control was something he wasn't keen on feeling again.

Instead, he'd settle for a nice morning fly in the weeks leading up to Christmas. That was… if the Pitch was free. Which it wasn't. Rather than occupied with a team, however, there was a lone figure darting about the space, leaving nothing but a flash of green and platinum blonde behind. It only took Harry a minute or two to realise that it was Malfoy, and that he was, in fact, accompanied by another person of a much larger build with darker hair. Of all people, it was Goyle. Harry had a vague memory of how he handled a broom from years of opposing him in Quidditch.

“Bloody hell, Goyle, no wonder you were never seeker,” Malfoy was shouting, voice rising in volume as Harry made his way further into earshot. “You wouldn't see the Snitch an inch from your face!”

“I think I need glasses,” Goyle grumbled back, only audible due to his voice carrying with the gust wind and the force he mustered to help Malfoy hear his reply. “Anyway, Seeker… that was always you. I was always best suited for Beater, if I don't say so myself.”

“To be a Seeker you need to be  _agile_ ,” Malfoy pronounced, ignoring any of Goyle's words that didn't centre around him. “You need to be fast, observant-”

“In love with Harry Potter?” Goyle piped up, and Malfoy threw him a glare.

“Shut up, Greg,” he sneered, but there wasn't any bite to it. “As if  _that_  would help.”

“Maybe that's why you lost all of our matches against Gryffindor,” Goyle remarked, barely restrained amusement simmering in his tone, and as slow as he usually seemed to be, he was ready for when Malfoy lurched after him on his broom, shouting obscenities as he went. It was far from hostile- instead, the altercation was playful, as Harry watched the two swooping across the pitch. They dived for scarcely a minute before Malfoy caught up with Goyle, grabbing at the end of his broom and pulling him back. Goyle laughed a great belly laugh and Malfoy chimed in with his own quiet tones. It was the most free Harry had ever heard or seen him, and he was utterly struck by it. He wanted to see more, to see it again and again and again.

But Goyle's words.

In love. It wasn't the first time Harry had heard it. It was cropping up a lot, these days, especially when in reference to Malfoy's feelings for him. Harry had been so sure that there was no chance at all it was true. But at this point, it seemed to be a ridiculously extended trick and one with far too much effort and coincidence. Could Malfoy really…

Malfoy happened to glance down, and he really, really could be in love with Harry.

His expression was frozen in utter horror and Harry almost worried he'd fall from his broom. Goyle followed his gaze and apologetic guilt rushed onto his face, and Harry could barely look anymore. If he tried, he could play it off as if he hadn't overheard them, but he couldn't stop himself from turning from the Pitch in thick confusion and making his way back to the Castle, shock clean and clear in his heart. No. Surely not. There wasn't simply a suggestion that Malfoy had developed some kind of infatuation after the war- Goyle implied this had lasted a  _while_. Which was even more ridiculous a notion.

Malfoy was fascinating. He was bewildering and beautiful but he hadn't always been. Once upon a time he had been cruel and callous and Harry had, quite rightfully, hated him. He had always thought that Malfoy had hated him in return. It had certainly seemed like it, with the way Malfoy had treated him all those years. But Malfoy had always paid him a certain amount of attention that was surprising, especially when considering their status as sworn enemies. Malfoy had always been so strangely focused on him and his friends. Malfoy had been party to far too many coincidences lately. How would it be possible to plan such a joke? How were Malfoy and his friends to know where Harry would be at all times?

How could that gut-wrenching expression on Malfoy's face be faked?

Harry spent the day in a daze. Malfoy didn't appear at breakfast and his friends sent many a worried glance Harry's way, who ate his toast with mechanical detachment. Ron dropped jam on Hermione's skirt and distracted them both from Harry's obvious introspection. It was Ginny, in the end, who noticed. Hermione's Christmas party was in full swing, the Room of Requirement fit to bursting with drunken teenagers and extravagant decoration, and Harry could do nothing but listen distantly to the sounds of the Weird Sisters and sip at his Knotgrass mead.

“You're quiet,” Ginny remarked, sidling up next to him. Harry nodded blearily.

“Long day.”

“Homework?”

“Something like that.”

“I kissed Luna,” she said, and Harry turned to her in surprise. She grinned, toothy and exhilarated. “I'm going to tell Ron tonight. That this is who I am.”

“I think Ron knows. About me, I mean.”

“That you're gay?” she asked, quiet, and Harry's lack of immediate response was enough confirmation. “So you know, now?"

It was then that Malfoy decided to walk in, flanked by Parkinson and Zabini, followed by Goyle and Greengrass. He kept his head down and let his hair fall over his face, strands of pale sunshine. Harry felt a pang of excitement, felt butterflies ricochet in his stomach. He swallowed, moistening his suddenly dry throat.

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice low. “I'm gay.”

Ginny wasn't a fool. She had followed the drift of his gaze the minute Malfoy had appeared and Harry knew, without looking, that she was laughing silently and in complete understanding. “Go and speak to him,” she urged, and Harry was glad it was without judgement. Yes, it was Malfoy he wanted. After all he had done. But Ginny was kind and careful and Harry was grateful for her tact and sweet support.

His limbs carried him without affirmation, past Ron and Hermione dancing loosely by the speakers, laughing as they did so, past Dean and Seamus kissing on the sofa with slow intimacy, past Luna twirling below the sparkling lights, dress fanning about her. All the way up to Malfoy, who was spooning punch into a glass. Harry cleared his throat and he glanced up, startling at Harry's sudden presence, punch spilling from the ladle and onto the table, and Harry heard a shocked, sharp intake of breath from behind Malfoy. The music was but a distant din in Harry's ears.

“You came,” Harry breathed, and Malfoy nodded jerkily.

“You said I should,” he murmured, and Harry suddenly wanted him so much he couldn't bear it.

“Can I talk to you?”

“I'd prefer-”

“No,” Zabini interrupted. “Draco's with us tonight. Leave him alone, Potter. He hasn't the time to talk to you.”

“Please,” Harry whispered, eyes fixed on Draco, and Draco visibly softened, gaze flickering to Harry's mouth.

“Okay,” Draco replied, “okay.”

The Room of Requirement had constructed almost an entire suite for the party, rather than a simple room. Round a corner there was a long corridor that led down to some toilets. It was almost silent down here. The blaring noises of music were but a muffled undercurrent, threading throughout the tension in the air. Harry could hear Draco's breaths and could hear his own, could feel his heart thundering in his chest. It was all so unexpected, but damn him if it wasn't a brilliant rush of excitement. Being this close to Malfoy, with the unsaid knowledge of want hot between them. Harry wanted Draco more than he ever had.

“You love me?” Harry said, cutting right to the chase, words spilling from his mouth unbidden. Draco squeezed his eyes shut in shame and turned his face away, but Harry caught his cheek in his palm, pulling his head back. “Draco,” he tried, a whisper. Draco finally looked at him, bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes damp.

“Yes,” he confessed, all in a rush. “Yes, always. Forever.”

“Oh,” Harry heard himself say.

“You were always so beautiful and I could never look away,” he said, gazing at Harry with some desperate, saddened adoration that took Harry's breath away. “You were always so brave and ridiculous and impulsive. I wanted you, every day. I tormented you so you'd look at me. I asked Thomas to the Yule Ball because he looked so much like you, back then. I'm sorry.”

Harry paused. Swallowed. Looked up.

“Mistletoe,” he commented, and Draco's caught expression of sorrow seemed to melt, thawing as he noticed. His breath stuttered.

“Harry-”

Harry kissed him, mind full of Nargles. Draco's mouth was wet and warm and everything Harry had been imagining for the last month. He was solid and real, he was responding to Harry with a frantic joy that made Harry want him all the more. Love. It wasn't something that Harry could quite match, and from Draco's words, it was obvious that his desire for Harry was something that was far from fleeting. This was something he had been waiting for since forever, and now Harry thought on it, it made a lot of sense. He could only hope that Malfoy would realise that this wasn't some distant dream any longer, and that Harry wasn't that great Chosen One that everybody had once loved. Harry was a lost boy looking for a place in this world. He was Harry, just Harry.

But then, Draco knew that. He had picked him apart for years, preyed upon his weaknesses and mocked his flaws. It had been cruel, but it was an honest perception. He wasn't Harry Potter, not to Malfoy- he was  _Potter_ , stupid and annoying and apparently, painfully attractive. Harry would take it.

“Harry,” Draco was gasping, tormented bliss illustrating his expression. “This isn't… I love you. You know that, right? I don't want a snog at Christmas. I want… I want you. I want your everything.”

“I know,” Harry assured, watching the red of his lips as he uttered the words.

“You always hated me,” Draco said.

“Not anymore,” Harry admitted. “Not for a long time. You're beautiful and you understand all that pain we endured. For a while I didn't know what I wanted, but now...”

“What do you want?”

“To try. To try with you.”

This time, Draco was the one to initiate their kiss. Harry could taste Christmas in the curve of his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas [bitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shua_hui)!!! hope it's not awful :/
> 
> on another xmas note, you should all check out shua_hui's gift for me [here](http://kuroinspirit193.tumblr.com/post/168908937120/merry-christmas-a-hogwarts-era-social-media-au) (i've ALWAYS wanted a drarry social media au) and my tumblr [here](http://savethealiens.tumblr.com/)!


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